Where Justice Naked Is
by WalkingMassofComplexes
Summary: ...challenge oneshot... As a result of the war, Hermione has nightmares.


**Where Justice Naked Is**

"O let not Time deceive you,

You cannot conquer Time.

In the burrows of the Nightmare

Where Justice naked is,

Time watches from the shadow

And coughs when you would kiss.

In headaches and in worry

Vaguely life leaks away,

And Time will have his fancy

To-morrow or today."

– "Birthday Poem" by W. H. Auden

**oOoOo**

The eyes, that's what bothered her the most; they struck her very soul with a poisoned dagger. The windows to the soul, someone had once said, someone Hermione didn't care to remember. But the saying had always stuck with her through the years. They started out cheerful, the joys of childhood prevalent in those orbs of all colors. They started out optimistic, excited, good-natured, without worry. They started out in a million adjectives that circulated in her head, all with the exception of a few world-weary gazes. She had always been a perceptive child, and Hermione had realized first how true this one saying was with just a glance into those constantly darkened eyes of the jaded.

Her views changed little by little, increment by increment, after that first meeting of gazes, one lost and stuck in the past for all the wrong reasons, the other eager to learn all the presented mysteries of this new world, something made out to be book-like and righteous. These surroundings, she would learn in time, weren't the stuff of novels, where Good triumphed over Evil with just a single slash of a mighty sword. Over the years, their Windows changed. Yes, at first, it was only one associated with a growing up, their minds filled with visions of their normal, peaceful lives. Then, they changed drastically with the coming of a new version of struggle, an art form as old as time.

This conflict, one she was enlisted into without compensation for her loss of innocence, drew from the people. It bit first into the teenagers on the cusp of adulthood, those with bright eyes for the future, with a vicious passion. Those heroic dreams of grandeur shattered easily, fine china broken with an axe.

Their eyes now reflected their hardening and darkening souls, which were brought about bit by bit. None more so than those world-weary ones, she knew. Atlas, the weight of the world on his shoulders, was them, their souls flattening with each month, day, minute, second that passed as they were put under the extreme pressure of this unwanted burden.

Hermione had become adept at searching those orbs, seeking out the precious and thin thread that connected them to the soul. It could not be called a hobby, for that was a simple thing to be learned and used at leisure. Once she had learned, there was no going back; they haunted her. Everywhere she turned, new ones met her, old ones met her, all calling out in a Siren's song to be read, to be revealed with her non-power. To think, she thought she would get rid of it and throw away the skill at leisure on a shelf to be used when desired. Hermione was wrong. It was an unwavering thing, refusing to let go, and she soon found that it was permanent. It was going to terrorize her forever.

The eyes, windows to the soul and reminders of her deeds, now followed her outside of the waking realm and into Morpheus' playhouse. They silently accused her, whispered things to her in her own soul's imaginary-yet-there ears.

_ We'll never let you go, Hermione, our sweet, sweet Hermione_.

And, indeed they did not. They sought her out, and she couldn't look away, forced to feel their needles that stabbed at her, reminding her of things best forgotten. And those thoughts, all those thoughts. How many times had she contemplated running away, never to be seen again?

The gazes stared from people, animals, all, and what frightened her most was that they were _dead, _gone forever. Forever was such a long time. Blood, stale and dried or fresh and gushing – it mattered not, flowed like oceans, crimson tides that never seemed to end. Hermione could look away from this, she somehow knew, but it fascinated her in a highly morbid way, reigniting that passion for knowledge once more. Questions as to why this all could have happened – everything – streamed through her mind endlessly these days. Brief moments of remembrance of the time-turner almost made her smile, but she didn't.

Then, the screams, by God, the screams.

They accompanied those Windows and were almost worse sometimes. The men impacted with shrapnel, the high-pitched screech of a lost and despairing comrade, the agonized moan of a fallen, not-yet-dead soldier that clutched her blown off and bloodied leg. They had used all these people in the Ultimate Battle, Evil's last stand, with nary a care.

Some felt little guilt, she knew. However, even if Hermione felt guilt or any other such thing in the Good for that matter, they were all cruel and twisted in the all-knowing eyes of Justice. Her comrades had used Justice as an excuse, saying it was necessary, righteous. Few saw through this charade, most believing the lies they told themselves as they walked in the newly conquered section of the world, seemingly a universe of its own. She almost wished, at times, that she could join them, sever the memories from her mind, and go freely. But this knowledge dragged her down, and she wept because her precious gift brought her nothing but pain.

All these combined into the monstrosities named nightmares.

Hermione couldn't handle them – just couldn't see, hear, feel the consequences of her actions, couldn't muster up courage to confront reality. Going through them, living through it once had been enough – but to see their eyes, their souls laid bare, every night – to heard their screams, the pleading and begging for sweet, much-longed-after Death, always ricocheting off the walls in her head, trapped and visible only to her – it was _too much_. And Hermione couldn't stand it. Time after time, they would perish, expire, perhaps before their time. She would reach out, try to futilely drag them back to Life, in these night terrors, a challenge she didn't feel up to now. But, she wasn't in control, her hand forever extending to grasp at air despite her wishes. They fell nonetheless and stared with those blank yet emotion-filled eyes, mouths open in silent screams that she somehow heard. More than anything, Hermione wished she couldn't remember, this time because she didn't want to watch them die, over and over again, a never-ending cycle. God taunted her, sanity only being in the waking world and, even then, only held with a wearing chain.

She knew her husband, Ron, worried for her. As if peering through the eyes of a spectator, she could see why. The mirrors , being so much more than glass to her now, threw back her image – a picture of a grief-stricken woman, the face of a widow. Hermione wondered if she would become one, parted from dear sanity.

Bags, heavily darkened, made crescent moons under her eyes, those chocolate eyes that glimmered no more, had only the tiniest spark of life. Moons, she supposed, that could be in memory of her once teacher, Remus Lupin; a tribute.

He had been a man with a secret passion for the moon's mysterious beauty, that enchanting wonder. When suffering from brief bouts of insomnia, Hermione wandered about, often finding Remus in her travels. He would sit still on a particular large rock, statuesque in his pose, just gazing at that yellow-white giant in the nighttime sky. He came out to view it on random nights that he could get away, could run from the existence that seemed a plague to him.

At the full moon, its peak in a never-ending cycle of growing and regressing, he would change, transform into that misjudged, yet oh so dangerous wolf-man hybrid. They were never to meet, sit in that strange, understanding silence, on those days. She would stay up all night, watching from Gryffindor Tower whenever possible, as she worried in that distant, higher-than-acquaintance sense. Her two friends, her lifelines in the storm of Life, never mentioned her tired countenance in the aftermath of deprived sleep.

The lunar shadows grew and blackened each day, but never to wax into a full moon. Maybe that was why she could bare to look at them, despite them being so close to her dreaded Windows. They were not fully reminders, like a mere obituary in a newspaper – an observation of a passing that meant little to anyone.

Also, she had wrinkles, time lines that seemed like battle scars from an undetectable fight with the nightmares. They made Hermione look old, but she knew she was just that – an Old Soul – one that had seen and done too much yet, at the same time, too little. That inability, the hesitation that cost lives, that was the focus of her most recurring, hideous 'dreams', the failure. Failing was one thing she couldn't stand, but it was inevitable. For it to dog her every step, viciously nipping at her mind's heels, was maddening. Clotho, that spinner of threads, unfortunately made it so easy to clip the twined life force of a mortal, and who was Hermione to debate this, resist the destinies of those around her, or were around her and permanently etched into her brain?

She had grown matchstick thin, food no longer appealing as it once was, somehow another reminder of her perceived wrongs. All things were cruel to Hermione, playing her head well like a pianist with a hauntingly beautiful composition, all low notes that flowed perfectly. Though, she, and maybe the pianist – a mere human playing God – didn't know how it would end, as everything did. The food, life and fresh breath to all living things, plagued her – lamb's leg for dinner, a memory of Tonks mourning the loss of her mother's cooking every night; bright and tone-varied vegetables and drinks, a memory of Dumbledore. They were moronic delusions, hallucinations only Hermione could see. She refused to look upon them, preferring to eat blindly, quite literally, when she deemed it necessary to sustain her place in reality.

Her skin became whiter, a ghostly color where blue lines, so vital, showed. Hermione felt wraith-like at times, those midnight hours with her and her thoughts alone, and in those moments clearly saw her half-dead, half-crazed state. It brought fleeting, yet engraved, flashes of the night terrors. It never stopped, fueled by her anxieties and fears, a vicious cycle that preyed upon the weak-willed – ever, ever, _ever_. A constant circle – of pure sadistic pain, of hoped redemption, of horror, of feelings her subconscious thought better unnamed – a never-ending reel of film, an infinite record with scratches played backwards. It bombarded her brain, seeking entrance, invading forcefully until her head seemed full to the brim with this madness then emptied again to refill, to empty, to refill. _It never stopped_.

Clutching at greasy, stringy strands of hair, as if to scratch away to her brain and _eliminate it_, did nothing for Hermione. She wanted to escape, be free, run wild without fear. If only, if only, _if only_! But, 'if only' never accomplished anything. She whined low, a canine noise that didn't suit her, to not wake Ron, sleeping peacefully and without a forever-memory; to distract herself.

Hermione was currently curled up on the couch in the living room, as if to protect herself from blows, the punches and kicks that battered her mentality. Moonlight from a nearly full moon – something she didn't dare look at – streamed through the beautiful stained glass window above her. The colors created by the depicted scene lay upon her, her skin turning red, yellow, green, blue, and purple. They made her appear even more ethereal, a strange foreigner among mankind that graced earth with her presence, purpose not yet known. Hermione was shivering, not from the chill, as it was summer, but from the icy claws of weakness and helplessness – shameful things.

She, when still a child, had thought that to be strong – to be a hero (she had never wanted to be the princess that had nothing to do but wait for help) – she would have to sacrifice, be weak at some point and let karma have its destructive fun. But, to be an animal just born, without defense, each and every night, crumbling under the massive weight, almost as heavy if not more than the world-weary's, of those uncomfortably realistic memories that she never desired, or would push upon anyone... It didn't seem right or fair, even if she knew there was no such thing as fair at any one moment. All these nightmares, every second of terror, all the helplessness had yet to yield the strength that she had dreamed of, once long ago.

Just thinking about it, bringing up the problem – if only to herself, not even aloud – gave her the pressing urge to cry. She fought it, fearing, but they overcame Hermione with growls and snarls, clawing away fiercely at her eyes. Streams of the cursed water ran fast, and she cried out, louder this time yet not enough it seemed. The clear liquid also reflected a bit of the multicolored light that fell upon her. Ashamed, she made no noise after that.

Eventually, she looked up, dots dancing before her vision. She paid them no mind, used to the well-known fiends that were the consequences of constant hunger. Hermione's eyes widened, while she whimpered pitifully again, as faces jumped about in front of her, ghastly things whose mouths opened and closed in screams and chants and accusations. Her hands clapped over her ears to block out inaudible yelling but could not close her eyes, perhaps the most vital action that could be taken against these illusions. She hunched in on herself even more, still not looking away, panting slightly – a prelude, she didn't hope.

The faces, nothing anyone else could see, were all too familiar – the facial images, imprinted, from the nightmares. As much as she wished not to, she recognized them and always would. She whispered in the dark the names of them – those lost to this world forever. Snapshots followed clips that sent the tears running faster.

** Tonks**. Red frizzy hair shifting to melancholy blue waves and then to a lime green – a kaleidoscope of wondrous colors that enchanted, changing with just littlest of passing fancy. Then, back to red again, stained forever this time.

** Neville**. A brilliant smile with those chocolate eyes, a man-in-spirit watching over the many other children, a born leader in time – a _king_, perhaps, in another life – with such pride in what he considered his.

** Remus**. And, there it was, back again to this man. A full, fat, and white balloon in the sky and a face so lost and full of _longing_. The Moon Goddess looking over, a titan neutral in nature, too great and powerful for a mere mortal.

Hermione stayed there on the couch, continuing to name and remember, all night long, finally grasping sleep hours later.

**oOoOo**

_ Spells flew everywhere, potions and transfigured objects their partners. It was a horrifying visage – the battlefield. Bodies, just simple, human men and women, lay at every possible space, eyes staring up towards the sky with glassy sheen. She shuddered, ripping her gaze away but wanting to close those eyelids to hide them away, but went on. _

_ Dodge._

_ Roll._

_ Strike._

_ Use that curse._

_ Then, _this_ one._

_ She repeated her motions, dancing to the horrible noise-song of war. She thought she heard her name, a call from God – hopefully to be rid of all this._

_ Yet there was no sweet, glorious relief._

_ The scenes played out according to schedule, a precision that scared her. _

_ Dodge. _

_ Roll– _

_ Hermione!_

_ Who was calling her, taunting the woman once more? Who could be searching for her?_

_ '_Take me, let us leave_!' her mind screamed. But, her body, heeding nothing, kept up the motions, just as it did every night. It was _never_ over, it was– _

_ Slap!_

Hermione woke up abruptly, a red hand print on her cheek, the result of yet another nightmare. Ron stood over her, worry evident in every facial line and gesture, and his eyes – a feeling some part of her thought she didn't deserve. She smiled shakily at him, the same fake turn of the lips that always greeted her husband. Ron smiled back, thinking the worst was over, falling for that trick once more. It was a well-played trick that she did often, a necessity in life.

She thanked him quietly, voice rough. He grinned again, his own lip twist weak, reading deeper into that one word, knowing she meant it sincerely and from the bottom of her heart. It saddened him that she was this way, but he stood by in it all, leaving her to wonder why. A demented perverted version of a human like her did not deserve him, a hero she was destined not to be. Ron announced that he was going to make breakfast and left, and she wondered if he was fleeing, running away from the pain of seeing her like this.

After about half an hour, the meal was done, Ron calling her in to eat. He came in the room to guide Hermione, she closing her eyes tightly to block it all out. As customary, he brought out the simple, blessed white cloth, the one to shield her from the madness that was sight. And, as she ate haltingly, as if unsure of this daily ritual, while she viciously speared the subsistence in spite the damned _weakness_, she wondered if, perhaps, being blind, robbed forever of sight in some horrible accident, would be a better way to view this vile, vile world – not at all. As the idea of barricading herself behind milky white film from those Windows, from horrors none should have to witness, from _life_, took hold, dug raptor-claws into her brain, her skeletal hands twitched.

Then, her whole body – and her very _being_ – shuddered for want of relief from the world, to have it all taken away in an instant, to be able to glimpse Heaven and beyond. Her fork dropped with a monstrous clang, signaling that _no_, it was _not_ alright – a bright, neon target that claimed her as Troubled and Lost. Hermione hurriedly groped for that traitorous implement, nearly knocking down several inconsequential, petty items down in her frantic pace and grasped it with both cold, clammy hands in a white-knuckled grip, holding on as tight as she could, like a sailor to a lifeline in Nature's watery rage.

Her breathing quickened, one of the many prices of fighting an uphill battle with sanity, a thing she wondered as to whether was worth this bloodshed, this conflict that ripped away her Self – _who she was_.

It all stopped, miraculously _ceased_, when Ron pushed away his chair hurriedly with a loud sound and came up behind her. He wrapped his arms, so strong and wonderful, around her thin, trembling frame, warmth seeping into her and lightening the cold, heavy burden of guilt for a moment. He whispered sweet nothings and words of love into her ear, reassuring her soul that _it was going to be better some day_. Hermione slowly relaxed, hands lifting to grasp his with a desperate need, wanting to feel that _yes_, someone was there, that it was _real_. In that moment, Hermione was reminded that Ron would be her guideline, her savior rising on the wings of Love.

And that was all she needed.

X

END of Where Justice Naked Is

**TBL**: Well, that was my first (and probably only) oneshot. It's been a long time in the works ('bout a year or more, I'd reckon). Actually, the funny thing is that I only finished it because I had to use it for the English final (we had to write a story). I just changed the names and mixed it up a bit, and – presto magico! – I had a worthy project. I got a 99 on it too!

Anyways, this is based off of a challenge (no time limit, thank God) from one of the fanfiction(dot)net forums. It was called 'the Nightmare Challenge.' I would tell you who it was from, but my paper that I printed out has gone missing, and I can't seem to find it on the forums (it's a really old one, if that helps). The challenge basically said you had to have a main character have nightmares and overcome them somehow. They then gave quotes and you had to pick a few to use. At least, that's how I remember it.

Hope you liked it.


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